My friends call me Matt, I'm a big ginger cat,
And I reckon I'm thirteen years old.
I'm the home loving kind
Where I'm rather inclined
To be lazy. Or so I’ve been told.
There’s a photo of me, on a neighbourhood tree,
Either stapled or pinned to the trunk,
For amidst all the purring
My mind has been whirring
And, actually, I’ve done a bunk.
If they'd only got rid of that hideous kid
Then I would have been happy to stay,
He was horrible, darn it,
The devil incarnate,
With his version of what they called 'play'.
He tugged at my tail every day without fail
And he put smelly socks on my head.
I was sprayed with a hose
And dressed up in old clothes,
I was glad when they put him to bed.
It seems such a shame, before ‘Damien’ came
I could count on a cuddle or hug.
But with ‘Baby On Board’
I was simply ignored.
Then I learned they were buying a pug!
So, I swore by my paw, this was just the last straw,
I would not share my home with a hound.
For deep down inside
It’s a matter of pride
And fresh lodgings now had to be found.
So, I’ve got a new spot with a lady called Dot;
It's warm and there's plenty to eat.
My past life, once so rotten
Is almost forgotten . . .
We cats always fall on our feet.
